The Runner by Christopher Reich Read Free Book Online

recognize the law behind your argument, I do recognize the sentiment. Never underestimate the value of emotion on a jury. Or passion. Sometimes a tear is all it takes to topple the soundest defense—though I’ll thank you to leave my brother out of it, if there’s ever a next time.”
    Judge no longer had a problem following Storey’s advice to keep his mouth shut. Any lawyer could recognize the preamble to good news. One thing bothered him. Why the hell did Storey look so glum?
    A knock came at the door and Storey rushed to open it. A messenger wearing sand-colored puttees, crash helmet under one arm, handed over a yellow envelope, asking Storey to sign a receipt. Storey scribbled his signature, then handed the envelope to Jackson, all the while avoiding Judge’s inquisitive glare.
    “I believe this is yours,” said Jackson, thrusting the envelope toward Judge.
    Judge tore open the telegram. It read: “Per verbal orders supreme commander armed forces Europe. Major Devlin Parnell Judge, JAG, is forthwith and immediately transferred on temporary duty to the Office of the Provost Marshal, United States Third Army, General George S. Patton, Jr., commanding. The duration of the transfer shall last no longer than seven days and will end at midnight, 15 July 1945. Every member of this command is to provide this officer with all assistance he requests. Signed, General Dwight D. Eisenhower.”
    Judge wanted to smile. He’d gotten his transfer to Patton’s Third, and with Eisenhower’s blessing, no less. But something in the telegram bothered him. Reading it a second time, his eyes tripped over the words that left stillborn his excitement. “The duration of the transfer shall be seven days.”
Seven days!
It would take him a day just to travel to Bad Toelz and get acquainted with the setup. The transfer was hardly better than being turned down altogether. If ever he’d won a Pyrrhic victory, this was it. So much for Storey’s downcast look.
    “I can’t have you traveling all over Europe at your discretion,” explained Jackson. “This will put a rush on things. Do your work, find him, and get back. I hope I’m making you happy.”
    Judge kowtowed as decorum demanded. “Yes, sir, I appreciate your efforts on my behalf. Thank you.”
    Jackson ambled to a dresser and poured himself a tumbler of scotch. “By the way, you should feel right at home in Bad Toelz. The provost marshal is a fellow named Mullins. Ring a bell?”
    “Would that be Spanner Mullins, sir?”
    “If Spanner is some kind of nickname for Stanley, yes, it would. Your former precinct commander is delighted to have you aboard. Said Tallyho is pinching his resources in a terrible way. He asked if you might be granted a longer stay, but I had to turn him down. Told him you were too good a man to lose indefinitely.”
    Judge mumbled “Thank you” again. He was happy to be reporting to Mullins but hardly surprised. Half of New York City was in Europe. His commanding officer at Interrogations was John Harlan Amen, the former district attorney for Brooklyn. Telford Taylor, a prominent Park Avenue attorney who’d recruited him out of law school was also working under Justice Jackson, and now who should turn up but Spanner Mullins, commander of the Twentieth Precinct during his ten years as a New York City cop. He’d heard his former boss was attached to Patton’s staff. He should have figured it would be in the provost marshal’s office.
    “I’m flying to Nuremberg tomorrow morning,” said Jackson. “If you want to hitch a lift, be at Orly Airport at nine o’clock. Seven days, Major. Next Monday, I want you at the Ashcan in Luxembourg beginning your interrogation of Fat Stuff. Is that clear? Oh, and Judge, one last thing. You’re going to Patton’s command. Make sure your shoes are shined.”
     
    B ACK IN HIS OFFICE AT 7 rue de Presbourg, Bob Storey locked the door and rushed to his desk. Unlocking a cabinet near the window, he removed a scuffed